XXVII
There were no engagements for the following morning, and Magdalena wassitting idly on the verandah when she saw Trennahan sauntering up thedrive. The blood flew through her veins, lifting the weight from herbrain. But she repressed the quick smile, and sat still and erect untilhe reached the carriage block, when she went to the head of the steps tomeet him.
"Put on your hat," he said, "and let us hide in the woods beforesomebody comes to take us for a drive or to invite us to luncheon. Ihaven't forgotten our private plans, if you have."
"I had not forgotten, but Tiny and Ila manage everything. I don't liketo refuse when they are so kind."
"You must develop a faculty--or no, leave it to me. I shall graduallybut firmly insist upon having a day or two a week to myself; and MissGeary informs me that such unprecedented energy can never last in thisVale of Sleep; that before a month is over we shall all have settleddown to a chronic state of somnolence from which we shall awaken fromSaturday till Monday only. Then, indeed, will Menlo be the ideal spot ofwhich I dreamed while you left me to myself on that long day of myvisit."
Her hat was in the hall. She put it on hastily back foremost, and theywalked toward the woods. Suddenly she turned into a side path.
"Let us walk through the orchard," she said. "Then we shall not meetanyone."
The cherries were gone; but the yellow apricots, the golden pears, thered peaches and nectarines, the purple plums, hung heavy among theabundant green, or rotted on the ground. Several poor children werestealing frankly, filling sacks almost as large as themselves. DonRoberto had never so far unbent as to give the village people permissionto remove the superfluity of his orchard, but he winked at theirdepredations, as they saved him the expense of having it carted away;his economical graft had never been able to overcome his haughtyaversion to selling the produce of his private estate. Magdalena oftencame to the orchard to talk to these children: the poor fascinated her,and she liked to feel that she was helping them with words and dimes;but they were not as the poor of whom she had read, nor yet of the fire.They were tow-headed and soiled of face, but they wore stout boots andwell-made calico frocks, and they were not without dimes of their own.
"Does California seem a little unreal to you?" she asked. "I mean, thereare no great contrasts. The poverty of London must be frightful."
"You ungrateful person, for Heaven's sake reap the advantage of yourbirthright and forget the countries that are not California."
They passed out of the back gate and entered the middle woods. Magdalenawithout hesitation led the way to the retreat hitherto sacred to Art.Trennahan need not have apprehended that she would inflict him with hermanuscript, nor with hopes and fears: she was much too shy to mentionthe subject unless he drew her deliberately; but she liked the idea ofassociating him with this leafy and sacred temple.
He threw himself on his back at once, clasping his hands under his headand gazing up into the rustling storeys above. About his head was a lowpersistent hum, a vibration of a sound of many parts. Above were onlythe intense silences of a hot California morning.
Trennahan forgot Magdalena for the moment. He felt young again and verycontent. His restless temperament, fed with the infinite varieties ofEurope, had seldom given way to the pleasures of indolence. Even satietyhad not meant rest. But California--as distinct from San Francisco--withher traditions of luxurious idleness, the low languid murmur of herwoods, her soft voluptuous air, her remoteness from the shrieking nervecentres of the United States, the sublime indifference of her people tothe racing hours, drew so many quiet fingers across his tired brain,half obliterating deep and ugly impressions, giving him back somethingof the sense of youth and future. Perhaps he dimly appreciated thatCalifornia is a hell for the ambitious; he knew that it was theantechamber of a possible heaven to the man who had lived his life.
He turned suddenly and regarded Magdalena, wondering how much she had todo with his regeneration, if regeneration it were, and concluded thatshe was merely a part of California the whole. But she was a part as wasno other woman he had met.
She had clasped her hands about her knees and was staring straightbefore her. Trennahan, in a rare flash of insight, saw the soul of thegirl, its potentialities, its beauty, struggling through the deep mistsof reserve.
"I could love her," he thought; "and more, and differently, than I haveloved any other woman."
He determined in that moment to marry her. As soon as he had made hisdecision, he had a sense of buoyancy, almost of happiness, but norejuvenation could destroy his epicureanism; he determined that the slowawakening of her nature, of revealing her to herself, should be a partof the happiness he promised himself. He was proud that he could lovethe soul of a woman, that he had found his way to that soul through anunbeautiful envelope, that so far there was not a flutter of sense. Hewas to love in a new way, which should, by exquisite stages, blend withthe old. There could be no surprises, no enigmatic delights, butvicariously he could be young again. Then he wondered if he were avampire feeding on the youth of another. For a moment he faced his soulin horrified wonder, then reasoned that he was little past his meridianin years; that a man's will, if favoured by Circumstance, can do much ofrazing and rebuilding with the inner life. No, he concluded with healthydisgust, he was not that most sickening tribute to lechery, an old veinyawning for transfusion. He was merely a man ready to begin life againbefore it was too late. This girl had not the beauty he had demanded ashis prerogative in woman, but she had individuality, brains, and allwomanliness. Her shyness and pride were her greatest charms to him: hewould be the first and the last to get behind the barriers. Such womenloved only once.
She turned her head suddenly and met his eyes.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked.
"I have been wondering what that huge pile is behind you."
"That is a wood-rat's nest."
"And you are not afraid of him? Extraordinary woman!"
"He is much more afraid of me. I am very afraid of house-rats."
"And you sit here often? You are not afraid of snakes?"
"There are none in these woods. They always retreat beforepeople--civilisation. Everyone drives through here, but scarcely anyonegoes through the back woods; the roads are so bad--"
"Hush!"
The sound of wheels, faint for a moment, grew more distinct; with itmingled the sound of voices. A heavy char-a-banc rolled by, and thewords of Tiny and Ila came distinctly to the two in hiding.
"They will have a long and fruitless search," said Trennahan,contentedly. "We are going to stay here and become acquainted."
And they did not move for two hours. For a time Trennahan made her talk,learning almost all there was to know. He even drew forth the tatteredshreds of the caballero, who had been little more than a matter ofgarments, and a confession of her long and passionate desire to bebeautiful. The story ended with the lonely and terrible surrender of herreligion. He was profoundly interested. Once or twice he was appalled.Did he take this woman, he must assume responsibility for every part ofher. She was so wholly without egoism that she would give herself upwithout reservation and expect him to guide her. That would be all verywell with the ordinary woman; but with a nature of high ideals, andpossibly of transcendent passions,--was he equal to the task? But in hispresent mood the prospect fascinated him. One of her slim hands, darkbut pretty, lay near his own. He wanted to take it in his, but did not:he wished to keep her unself-conscious as long as possible.
He tried to talk to her about himself, but found it hard to avoid theclaptrap with which a man of the world attempts to awaken interest inwoman. He had always done it artistically: the weariness, the satiety,the mental grasp of nothingness,--these had been ever revealed inflashing glimpses, in unwilling allusiveness; the hope that he hadfinally stumbled upon the one woman sketched with a brush dipped inmist. But feeling himself sincere for the first time in incalculableyears, he dismissed the tempered weapons of his victories with contempt,and, not knowing wh
at others to substitute, talked of his boyhood andcollege days. As a result, he felt younger than ever, and closer to thegirl who was part of the mystery that had taken him to her heart.
The Californians Page 27
